A Story One Bird Sang The Morning Peace Found Poem by Phillip Erb

Sometimes during the witching hours
when the moon disappears over the horizon
and the sun is opposite the earth from me
I get so lonely I pull at my hair and it
Takes everything still human inside me
Not to punch through these walls and scream
My feet won't take the hint and each one keeps
Pounding the carpet like I'm running even
Though my ass is practically glued to the seat
And I keep pushing my heart so hard it beats
Fast then slow, strong then weak, like I'm a deer
Run down like a dog in the middle of the street
Bent unnaturally like a pretzel my chest feels
Just like a hundred pairs of razor sharp teeth
Are clamped down on my lungs I can barely
Force either to breath and no one is here to
Notice this intimate moment; it's seems funny
how I can feel so warm when it was so, so cold
When I locked the door and it occurrs to me
That the trucker must've spilled his coffee
All over me just before we hit because I'm soacked
And everything is sticking to me, and somebody
Must be welding so dangerously close to me I can
Smell a curious copper on everything
When suddenly I cry
Though I don't know why
But I think of oranges,
And how beautiful
Colors taste and I remember
My mother's face and she
Smiles just like when I
Made straight A's, but Mom
the Sun's not near, it's so
Dark in here, shouldn't
You let me go back to sleep
So I'm not grumpy in the morning
I'm not the person I was going to be,
There's something important about this dream,
But it's too late and I can't quite remember why
I was thinking about something orange and round,
Give back my hand Momma, let me go back to sleep
There'll be plently of time for talk come morning,
and you know I love...